From Top to Bottom

by Harper Bliss

  Elise sighs a little, with relief and relaxation, with the pleasure of being taken care of precisely as she likes it. “Good job, boy; you may sit.” She pats the side of her thick leather reading chair and Morgan takes her seat at her Mistress's feet, leaning against her bare legs and cuddling into her with happy sighs, the tension from the day visibly leaving her shoulders.

  Elise takes another sip of her tea and goes back to her book—one of those classic English novels that she likes. This one is Pride and Prejudice, a favorite she re-reads once a year or so. This is the second time Morgan has seen it in her hands.

  Most nights, this is how it goes. Sometimes Morgan has a book, or something to study, or some lines to write for training or task. Usually, Elise has a novel, something that feels indulgent but keeps her mind steady and her heart thrumming. She likes to be as far into the adult-land in the evenings as possible—spending all day with preschoolers and kindergarteners for her job is exhausting, and can take such a toll.

  She fingers the hair on the back of Morgan’s head absently, as if fingering a blanket on the chair or her own sweater. Her submissive's presence is comforting, reassuring. The warm mint tea and honey soothes her and flows golden down her tongue. Everything is just right.

  After a few more chapters, when Lydia elopes with Mr. Wickham, Elise closes the book with a small snap and stands. Morgan blinks and quickly rises to her ready position—hands behind her back, eyes down. She does not stay seated when Elise is standing. Elise pulls Morgan close, nuzzles cheek against forehead, and Morgan wraps her arms around Elise's waist. How well they fit together, their bodies’ contours so complimentary. She holds her there for a moment until she says, “Okay; bedtime, boy,” and they separate. She turns to the hall to go into the bathroom for some of her evening self-care, and Morgan goes to the bedroom to strip. Elise takes her time—brushing and braiding her hair, applying cleansers and creams to her skin, brushing her teeth. Morgan waits. The waiting is like meditation, but cleaner for her, as it is totally beyond her control and thus much easier for her to let go. This is the kind of thing she tells her Mistress in her journal, which Elise reads weekly.

  Morgan has picked out the thick wooden paddle, taller than Elise's hand’s widest spread. One side is soft suede; the other is hard wood. The handle is wrapped so her hand is protected.

  This paddle makes beautiful, deep bruises.

  When she enters, Morgan has taken off her t-shirt and boy shorts, the ones that almost show the bottoms of the cheeks of her ass. She’s down to a jock strap, the white one, on her knees, hands behind her back in her submissive meditation position next to the bed. She knows to wait there until Elise releases her. Elise can see Morgan breathing in deeply, chest in heaves, jaw working as she swallows down the saliva that is pooling in her mouth. So many nights of this ritual, so many repeated patterns with their evening beatings that Morgan starts to flinch involuntarily when Elise gets close. She is a trained pet. Elise can see her arousal in the flushing of her nearly naked skin, the slight hardening of her nipples. Elise is nearly naked now, too, down to one thin cream-colored slip with nothing beneath it. Her feet are bare. She keeps her bedroom warm.

  “Here.” She points to the bed. She is not cruel, not really—just direct, specific. She eliminates superfluousness. She does not believe in coddling in D/s; she believes in trust, agency, consent. She believes Morgan’s deep desire to serve and to please, and she is grateful, yes, but she also feeds off of it. She consumes it like cotton candy, leaving her mouth pink around the edges and her fingers sticky. She needs it, just as Morgan does. Her clipped tone is only for simplicity, and for intimacy, as she trusts Morgan not to need handholding. Not anymore.

  Mistress Elise Winter is deft with a paddle. It was always one of her favorites when she was Domming professionally, delivering such a satisfying smack and leaving such good bruises. Plus, it can be a key prop in any age-play scene: just a few words and it is suddenly a cutting board the bottom’s mom grabbed from the kitchen, or a fraternity paddle stolen by a sorority girl, or a headmistress’s prized discipline tool. Even more than obedience, Elise likes her subs small and little, with feigned innocence. Something about the corruption just works with the way she is wired.

  She whispers in Morgan’s ear before she begins—something soothing, something that makes her relax, arch her ass in the air a little higher, and lean in to Elise just a fraction of an inch more. Elise rubs herself against her ass and thighs, her hand stroking the fine muscles of her back. When she whimpers a little, Elise knows she is ready.

  Starting with her hands, she warms up Morgan's ass and thighs and upper back. She is chest-down, face kissed by the burgundy 1000-count sheets, her feet just touching the floor of Elise's raised bed. When Elise moves from the quick light swats to the deeper fist-thuds, Morgan asks her if it is time.

  “Yes, go ahead and start,” she replies.

  Morgan begins counting aloud. Elise will do twenty or thirty more with her hands before bringing in the paddle to finish the hundred strokes.

  They don’t say much. It’s just one of those quiet nights. Elise tries to let her job fall away, the stresses of her vanilla life out of sync with her kinky self, the projects for the non-profit board she sits on, the pressure of her mother’s struggling health battle with emphysema. Nothing precisely fills Elise’s mind, but she finds her inner world quite full when she quiets and focuses. The relief of a target, a victim, is almost enough to make her start crying; the release feels so huge, like a dam beginning to leak and ready to smash apart with the weight of what is held back.

  Morgan is counting. “Thirty-two… thirty-three… thirty-four.” She is diligent, and taking it all for Elise. She is deconstructing and reassembling in front of Elise's eyes in that way that power and sensation can inspire. Elise slides the paddle into her grip and opens a rain of blows on Morgan's tender flesh, already pink and warm to the touch. Morgan’s breathing gets heavier and her voice more strained. Elise doesn’t care; they have only just reached fifty. She winds up like a baseball batter and swings.

  Morgan screams into the sheets. Drops of sweat form and trickle at her neck, at the small of her back. Her ass is a round handful and Elise takes her grip as it pleases her, kneading like dough. She leans down to bite Morgan’s ass. Morgan yells out, “Mistress, please, oh god, please, it hurts!” She squirms away, but Elise's hands hold her hips. She leaves a dark ring mark from her teeth; that one will bruise up nicely.

  She licks her lips, and swats with the paddle again.

  “This is for me, not you,” she whispers, mostly to herself. “I need it, I don’t know why I need it, but I need it, need your ass like this, need my marks on you, need your ache to show in your face tomorrow when you sit down.”

  “Sixty-eight… sixty-nine… seventy.” She is panting between the numbers. Elise is taking her time, savoring each one. Morgan's ass is already purple—she won’t be able to sit. Elise focuses on her thighs. Morgan is trying so hard not to squirm. Elise slips a finger between her ass cheeks to check on her hole: it flexes against her finger pad like a kiss, open and eager.

  “Hungry boy,” she murmurs, swatting again with her right hand. Morgan whimpers, pushing back against her just a little, not wanting to be too eager or demanding, but showing she wants it.

  Her knees are getting weak. The bed holds her up. Elise strokes Morgan’s hair and she turns so one cheek is on the bed and she can see her Mistress, just a little. Elise's thick braid is flying behind her like the tail of a kite, her hands moving quickly, opening Morgan's tight back hole as the paddle slams in to her. She tries with all her concentration to keep count. She misses a few, but Elise lets it go; she is doing so well. “So good, boy,” she coos. “You’re so good.”

  She’s in the nineties now and they are both climbing. Elise's two fingers dip into the Boy Butter on the nightstand and open her hole just enough for the pressure to distract Morgan from the wicked paddle. She might let Morgan get off. Will she? She
can’t decide. She likes it when she comes.

  “Ninety-eight… ninety-nine… one hundred,” Morgan is whimpering each number, tears down her beautiful cheeks, body shuddering in waves of release. Elise steps back and breathes, separates herself from Morgan for a moment so they can both catch their breath. Her wrists throb, her shoulders buzz with aliveness. A few hairs have strayed and she tucks them back into her braid.

  “Morgan,” she says softly. “Get on the bed and turn over.”

  She does, slowly, testing out how her muscles have been changed, wincing at the rawness. Elise slides her slip up her thighs and kneels on the bed, swinging her leg over Morgan and sliding up her submissive's body.

  “Oh god,” Morgan says, muffled, before Elise has even lowered her cunt onto her mouth to feed it to her. Elise's cunt is a hungry mouth, too, swollen and wet, dripping. She never lets Morgan enter her, but she uses her mouth when she wants. Morgan's stamina is impressive.

  She lifts her slip just enough so it is out of the way, not restricting the openness of her thighs. Its hem kisses Morgan's forehead. She laps with her tongue, sucks with her lips and throat. Elise's clit is huge and bursting with need, angry and red like the palms of her hands, like Morgan's ass. Elise needs it, this release, maybe even more than Morgan does—though how can they compare? But her want is monstrous, never-ending. She almost feels like herself again. She rocks her hips over her sub's mouth and steadies herself on the headboard, arms outstretched. She barely remembers there is a person under her right now, she just grinds down and against this beautiful boy, this toy who always does it just right, just right there.

  “Come when I do,” she orders, low and fast, not giving much warning—but Morgan won’t need it. She’s been ready to come since her ass was fingered. And she knows what Elise sounds like, what it means when she starts clawing at her hair and suffocating her with her hole.

  “Fuck, that’s it, there, god oh god oh god!” Elise is sitting on a volcano and erupts through her mouth with words and grunts and screams when she comes, heavy, filling Morgan's mouth with liquid, pushing it into her throat. She opens wide and takes it, shuddering under her and swallowing.

  “Thank you, Mistress, thank you,” Morgan repeats, breathless, still only breathing small sips of air.

  Elise moves off of Morgan and collapses onto the pillows; she curls up in her arms.

  “Stay in my bed tonight,” she says, stroking Morgan’s hair.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Morgan sighs, pulling the covers up over them both as they drift off to sleep.

  The Encounter

  I saw her walk in and take a seat at the bar. Blonde hair, high breasts and long legs. Gorgeous. Others had noticed her as well, and I watched as they sized her up and considered making a play. I hung back. I wanted to see them approach her, watch as they sauntered up, cocksure and arrogant. I knew she would turn them away. I laughed out loud as she didn’t even bother to glance at the first one—a tall woman with dark close-cropped hair and tats all up her arms. She sent her on her way with a flick of her hand and a shake of her head—like she was waving away a troublesome fly.

  The next one would probably be a little more to her taste, I guessed. Still tall, but not quite so arrogant, dressed all in leather and panther-sleek. Still the woman at the bar shook her head, and turned to catch the bartender’s attention instead. The other woman was left talking to her back, and I watched as she looked around to see if anyone had witnessed her humiliation, before she slunk off to re-join her friends.

  I waited a little longer, telling myself that I wanted to look at her a little more—she was beautiful—when the truth was, I was afraid that I might be turned away too. Although I knew exactly what she wanted—what she needed—doubt lingered and I was surprised to realize that I needed another drink to line my spine, before I would be confident enough to approach her. This was the woman I had been waiting for all night. The woman I dreamed about. My perfect fantasy come to life before my eyes, and I really didn’t want to fuck it up.

  I downed my scotch, barely noticing as it burned a fiery path down my throat. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, and, checking the coast was clear, I made my way over to her. It would have been more than awkward to arrive at her bar stool at the same time as another hopeful contender. I took a deep breath, got my head in the game, and made my move.

  “Are you looking to play?” I leaned in close to her, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. I felt her stiffen, and to my relief, relax again.

  “Maybe I am.”

  I stood still, permitting her inspection of me as she looked me up and down, her gaze leaving hot trails over my body. She flicked her eyes over me one last time, resting briefly on my crotch, and then up again.

  She took a sip, placed the drink on the bar and signaled for another. “What did you have in mind?”

  I looked around the room, meeting the eyes of one of the women she had rebuffed. The other woman stared at me openly, challengingly. I stared back, eyes hard and ready for it—after all, these were the rules of our particular game. Survival of the fittest, and you guarded what was yours—or what you wanted to be yours—and I knew that blonde would dismiss me without thought if she decided that I was anything less than she needed me to be.

  The would-be suitor looked away at last, and I was relieved because my eyes were beginning to burn with the effort of not blinking.

  I turned my attention back to the blonde who was smiling a small, secret smile, and I knew she had witnessed the contest. I hoped she was satisfied with the display.

  “I have a hotel room close to here. Let’s go.” I said it confidently, even though inside I was terrified she might say no, that she’d rebuff me and move on to someone more obviously butch. To emphasize my point, I gripped the back of her neck and leaned close, “Tonight, you belong to me.” I felt her shiver, felt her body bow a little under my hand, and that was when I knew for sure that she had chosen me.

  The night air was frigid, and I pulled her closer to me as we stepped outside. She slipped her arm under my coat and around my waist and leaned in to steal my warmth. It felt good to have her there, to be able to provide her with something that she needed. I put my arm around her shoulders, and despite the fact that she was slight, I sensed the strength in her body. I loved that about her. She was at once delicate, with a long graceful neck and finely shaped cheekbones, and also strong, with powerful legs that were at the moment, encased in black stockings. Her rounded ass spoke of time spent working out. I touched it now, allowing my hand to move over it in a brief caress. I imagined it without the skirt that covered it, imagined skimming my hands over the firm, soft flesh and delving into the cleft, to the tight muscle that was hidden there.

  My clit jerked in my jeans, and she must have felt me shudder, because I heard her laugh, and when I glanced down, her face was turned up to mine, that knowing smile playing gently on her full lips. I could hardly wait to get her into my hotel room, but before that, I needed to get it together. She was with me because she needed my control. Craved my iron will that would bend her and twist her. And she had to be confident that I wouldn’t break her. I could never show her my uncertainty, or how close she had me to losing control, or she would never trust me to dominate her.

  We were near the hotel now and I needed to lay down the rules. I had to walk in there in complete control. I pulled her into an alley, pushed her roughly against the wall and grasped her jaw in my hand. I leaned close, close enough to kiss, and I wanted to kiss her. I was dying to push my bigger body hard against hers and claim her mouth, bruise her lips with mine. But, I didn’t. Instead, I put my mouth to her ear, much like I had earlier in the bar, and I felt her pelvis push into mine for a moment.

  “Once we get inside, there’ll be no more talking unless I ask you a question. Once we get inside, you’re mine. You’ll do exactly what I tell you to and nothing else. Understand?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t hesitate.

  “I’m going to fuck you,�
� I jerked my crotch into her, fast and hard, “in your mouth and in your pussy and in your ass.” She gasped as my hand reached up and pinched her nipple under her coat. “If you don’t do exactly as I say, I’m going to punish you and I won’t go easy on you. If I do anything you don’t like, the password is Cody.”

  She looked at me then, eyebrow raised, and repeated, “Cody?”

  “Yeah. Problem?”

  “No, no problem.” Remembering her role, she lowered her eyes. Good.

  “Let’s go.” I had to stop myself from dragging her into the hotel and running with her into my room. I wanted her badly, and I couldn’t show her that, and it was killing me.

  The elevator took forever to come and when it finally did, it seemed to take an age to get to my floor. I was careful not to jam the key card into the slot. I didn’t want her to see how out of control I was. I almost cried with relief when the green light showed up and I ushered her into the room ahead of me.

  I’d splurged a little and booked a suite instead of just a room. The door opened onto a good-sized sitting room, with double doors leading through to a bedroom with a king-sized bed. I hoped that she didn’t mind—that she liked it. I was afraid to look at her in case she didn’t approve, and I was in control here, so I avoided her gaze. In line with the rules, she didn’t speak. She waited obediently for me to instruct her further. It made me hot—hotter than I was already—to be in complete control of her. Knowing that this beautiful, smart woman trusted me to lead her was the biggest turn-on in the world.

  “Stand over there, by the couch,” I instructed, my clit already swelling in anticipation. “That’s good. I want you to kneel on it, face the back.” She did as told without a word. I was behind her now. I pushed the coffee table out of the way. “Hike up your skirt above your knees. Are you wearing panties?”